


Don't You Wanna Be Famous?

by orphan_account



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: AU, M/M, im bad at this but we will try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24648754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An alternate universe where Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel never became famous.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. The Stalking of The Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time to play "How Many Times Can One Fandom Tell the Same Story Over and Over Again?" this time, starring me!
> 
> Yes, it's another fanfiction that starts with the story of how they met. Hoorah...
> 
> (I'm only kidding, it's quite a lovely story tbh)

Paul was entranced with him. He was in fourth grade, and he found it amazing that someone the same age as him could sing like THAT! It was astounding. The giddy 8-year-old had his eyes fixated on the stage for the whole three minutes that the tall, blond boy sang. Or was it four? It might've even been five. Paul didn't know, nor did he care. All Paul really knew was that he wanted to get to know this kid. He _needed_ to know him.

But, Paul was awful at making friends. He knew he had to have been, otherwise he would've made some by now. So he observed the boy from afar. Creepy, sure. Easier than actually talking to him? Absolutely. It's not surprising that it was easy for him, a humble 4'8 twig with the speaking voice of a Disney princess, to blend in with the crowd. To most, he was hardly there. Paul kept notes on the boy in his journal.

  * _Name:_
    * _Arthur Garfunkel (middle name unknown)_


  * _Birthday:_
    * _November 5, 1941_


  * _Most proficient subject:_
    * _Arithmetic_



It wasn't much, but it was a start.

By the 6th grade, Paul had entire pages filled out about him. The older he got, though, the more aware he became of how unsettling it would be for Art to know that he's been watching him. For almost three whole years. He became conscious of how odd and creepy it was to keep tabs on someone, to research them, out of a pure desire to get to know them. Out of fear of rejection if you try to talk to them. Still, the notes grew. Paul's little notebook was littered with pencil scratches, eraser bits, and question marks. He was so anxious about someone finding it, he almost always had it with him. At night, he put it under his pillow, in case his mom came in to sweep his room. There were many times when Paul considered stopping the notes all together. What would be the point, though? He couldn't just throw out three years of hard work. Well, he could, but it would be a waste. How was he supposed to know what to say to the boy when they finally did talk for the first time? Was he planning on talking to him? Paul didn't know. 

One night, Paul lied awake. He stared at the ceiling, and tried to count sheep like he had been told to do many times before. But the sheep kept running away. He needed to talk to Art. But how? There was nothing he could think to do that would come across as anything other than desperation. Until he remembered something he'd overheard. Art was going to audition for the 6th grade play. Alice in Wonderland, was it? Yeah, it was. Paul had seen that movie. He wasn't very impressed with it; it was a "girly" movie. His little brother Eddie loved it, though. If his parents asked, Paul was doing this for Eddie.

Paul had signed up. He had auditioned. Now, he was going to find out if he'd gotten the part. As he approached the cast list, hanging on the wall, he noticed a familiar figure standing in front of it. His heart rate sped up. Arthur. Paul tried his best to ignore how nervous he was getting. Why was he getting so nervous? He watched as the tall boy dragged his finger down the paper. 

"Cheshire Cat? Uhh...okay," Art mumbled. He looked over his shoulder at Paul, and then looked back at the cast list. "Paul Simon, you got...the White Rabbit! Groovy, you got a better part than I did. Good job." There was no bitterness in his voice. Either he was genuinely happy for Paul, or he was hiding his anger very well. Art gave Paul a pat on the shoulder as he walked away. Paul thought he would drop dead right then and there.

That night, Paul showed up to rehearsal, clutching his journal tightly in his shaking hand. He was nervous, again. He spotted Art in the corner of the backstage area, chewing gum and wearing a Philadelphia Phillies cap. Their school didn't allow hats, so Paul had never seen this hat, nor did he know Art was a Phillies fan. Paul, someone who took baseball very seriously, was almost offended. A Phillies fan? In New York? He thought that seemed unheard of. This didn't throw him off though. He opened his notebook and scribbled down "Team: Phillies." He looked around, and noticed he and Art were the only ones there. They were early. Paul took a deep breath, and then strode towards Art, as confidently as he could.

"Hi," he said, immediately losing all of his swagger. His eyes darted around; direct eye contact made him nervous.

Arthur noticed the uneasiness in Paul, and he smiled. He wasn't normally one to be calm and collected unless the situation called for it. This situation didn't call for it, he determined. "Hi! I'm Artie. You're Paul, I know that much."

Paul calmed down a bit. _Okay, so he knows my name. That's good, but I knew that already. Does he know me? Does he know me like I know him? Probably not. He said his name was Artie. Does he want me to call him Artie? Arthur? Art? Does he even want me to talk to him? Does he already hate me? Probably not._

Art broke the silence as Paul's mind buffered. "Uhm...here, sit down." He pulled a chair from the stack next to him and set it across from him. Paul sat down in the chair. "Why are you so nervous?"

Paul was looking down at his hands now, playing with his thumbs awkwardly. “I don’t know. I don’t really have any friends, and I’ve always thought you were interesting, and-”

“Wait, wait, wait…interesting? You could use any word in the entire English language to describe me, and you went with interesting?”

Paul looked at Art, cocked his head, and shrugged. “What’s wrong with being interesting?”

Art shifted his sitting position and sighed, staring at a distant wall. “I don’t know. I’m so used to being called different things. ‘Strange,’ ‘weird’…’queer.’ But no one’s ever told me that I’m interesting.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “You’re queer?”

“Wh- of course not, that’s just a dumb name people call me.” Art answered quickly. There was an odd silence. “Why, are you?”

“No,” Paul answered even quicker.

The silence returned. It was a thick, thick tension that was in the air between the two boys. The silence, and the tension, were broken with the soft scratching of a pencil on paper. Paul was writing a note in his journal: _not queer._

Art looked at him with an amused smile on his overall concerned face. “What are you writing?”

**Crap.**

Paul’s face flushed red, and he was overcome with a sense of nervousness once more. He sighed deeply. He didn’t have to tell Art what he was writing, but he felt like lying continuously over their whole friendship would be a much harder thing to do. “Okay, here’s the truth.” Art shifted his sitting position once again, adjusting for the optimal listening pose. He was curious about what could be so serious about a little notebook. “Do you remember the fourth grade talent show?”

Art nodded. “Yes, I remember,” he responded thoughtfully, reminiscing to himself. All the preparation, the vocal warm-ups, the adrenaline. Of course he remembered.

Paul sighed again. “I was there that night, and when I saw you, I just...I just thought you were really interesting, like I said before. I really wanted to get to know you, but I have never had any idea how to talk to people. I’ve gotten better at it, of course, but when I was eight…” he faltered for a second. “That’s not the point! The point is, I have been keeping this journal for the past three years...and it’s filled with notes I’ve collected from basically, um, sorta, uh, spying on you.”

Once again, silence filled the room. You could’ve heard a pin drop, but Paul couldn’t’ve. The inside of his head was loud, and crowded. Screaming voices begged for him to say “just kidding,” or something like that, something to save this friendship that he’d been longing for.

“You really wanted to know me that bad? Wow. I’m kind of flattered.”

That was the moment they clicked. Paul was an awkwardly-shaped puzzle piece; all Art had to do was shift his sitting position, and they could fit right together. After that night, they became almost inseparable. Art was no longer a far-away object of Paul’s interest. Now he was just another kid, and he thought of him as such. It was no longer “Arthur The Interesting.” Now, it was, “Arthur The Unusual,” “Art The Spontaneous,” “Artie The Friend.” During the weeks leading up to the play, they were constantly cracking jokes backstage, hanging out at the soda fountain after school, chasing each other through the schoolyards during lunch. It was bliss.

The night of the play, anxiety had never been higher. At least, for Art. Paul had been in this place before, and he wasn’t impressed by how nervous he was. He was able to keep his cool, relatively so.

“You’re gonna do great, good buddy,” he assured Art, who was tapping his feet nervously. 

“You really think so?” Art asked. Paul nodded.

To the adults in the audience, it didn’t seem like much. But to the 11-year-olds backstage, the world had their eyes on them. It was a night of fear, and adrenaline. Art remembered how he felt in 4th grade, and realized this was much more tame than back then. He was able to calm himself down, and he put on a great show! (The best show that a 6th grader with a supporting role could put on, at least.)

After the play, Art found Paul backstage, writing in his journal.

“You still writing about me?” He asked with a smile.

Paul laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

  * _Status:_
    * ~~_None_~~
    * ~~_We are acquainted_~~
    * _Friends?_



He crossed out his last bullet point and wrote in a new one:

  * _Status:_
    * ~~_None_~~
    * ~~_We are acquainted_~~
    * ~~_Friends?_~~
    * _Best friends_



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter is short, I know...but...the next one will be longer I think???


	2. Using Physical Force to Express Your Admiration and Other Teen Boy Nonsense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like...an introduction of teenage hormones and whatnot. they're gay for each other; they just don't know it yet.
> 
> tw/cw: brief mention of vomit

**-1953-**

“I hate that hat,” Paul stated. Art stopped what he was doing. “I just really don’t like that you’re a Phillies fan, that’s all.”

The two were playing at the baseball field on a sunny, summer’s day. The clouds were scattered across the sky, and Art thought it looked like a painting. Art also thought the angle of the sun created a kind of ethereal glow over the field. He’d been sitting on the ground, picking dandelions, and humming to himself. 

Paul was less worried about the aesthetics side of things that day. He just wanted to play ball. The state that Art was in worried him a bit. It was rather peaceful, and, though they’d only known each other for about three months, Paul knew by now that peacefulness wasn’t Art’s default. So, just to snap him out of his daze, he told the truth: Paul didn’t like Art’s Phillies hat.

Art wasn’t wearing the hat now, it was sitting on his bedside table at home, but he still took slight offense to this sudden confession from Paul.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, only half joking.

“Well...how can you be a Phillies fan?”

Art snapped another dandelion out of the ground, ignoring Paul’s gaze. He decided to humor him. “How can you be a Yankees fan?”

“Because we live in New York? If you were from Philly, I might understand that inclination,” Paul shot back.

“I am from Philly,” Art said, looking up at Paul, stone-faced.

“What? Really?”

Art laughed. “No, you goof, I was doing a bit.” He looked back at the ground "Also: what does inclination mean?”

Paul smiled and shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you seem upset.” He sat down on the ground next to Art. The grass was warm and damp, and Paul knew it was ruining his jeans, but that didn’t bother him at the moment. “What’s the matter, old pal?”

Art sighed. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about school. School stuff is...getting harder. It’s not easy like it was. And, if I’m not lying, I’m...scared of you, in that area. Even in your worst subjects, you seem to do really good. I just can’t keep up.” He looked at Paul, who was dumbfounded, and smiled softly. “Don’t feel bad, though.”

As Paul thought of something to say, he watched Art run his hands through the grass, occasionally picking up rocks and chucking them into the dirt of the baseball diamond. Paul was silently admiring Art. In a _“my friend is so cool!”_ way, of course. Nothing weird about it. He was admiring the curve of Art’s lips when he smiled. The funny way he sat. The way he bit his bottom lip when he was concentrating on something. Paul believed these observations were better left unsaid. Still, he needed to show his appreciation somehow. So, as most little boys do when unsure of how to express their emotions, Paul used physical force on his friend. He pushed Art over so he would lay flat on the ground then flopped back onto his own back to join.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to.”

**-1954-**

“Okay, did you bring your notebook?” Paul asked a deeply tired and stressed-out looking Art. 

He shook his head. “No. No, of course I didn’t, did you see me walk in with one? If I didn’t have one when I walked in, there’s a good chance I don’t have one now.” He spoke in mumbles, slurring his speech.

They were in Paul’s bedroom. They needed to study, but Art wasn’t cooperating so well.

Paul sighed. “Art. Art, this is important. We have a test on Friday. And it is Wednesday. We only have a small amount of time to get this done. What do you not understand?”

“It’s not a big deal!”

“Oh, but it IS a big deal, Arthur. We’re going to high school next year, you understand? High school. Forest Hills is not going to be as forgiving as Parsons. So, yeah, it’s kind of a big, BIG deal. And you need to focus, okay?”

Art scoffed. “It’s an English test. Why do you care how I do? You know I’ll fail. It’s not like it’s your grade.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the bedframe.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t care if I failed a math test?”

“Of course not. It’s not my grade. Why should I?”

The room fell silent. Paul glared at Art, while the wheels in his head began to turn. Art avoided the stare. Paul had called him “Arthur,” which meant he was upset. He felt bad. He wanted to make it up somehow. It wouldn’t have been necessary, though. Paul had a plan. 

"Let's go outside."

“Hopefully this helps you learn. I read that pain creates clearer memories due to trauma.”

“Where did you read that?”

Paul rolled his eyes. “A book, Artie. I read it in a book. Anyway, this is how it’s going to work. For every wrong answer, I throw this ball-” he held up the ball in his hand. “-at your chest. The second time you get the answer wrong, I pour ice down your shirt. And the third time, I get to kick you, and then I tell you the answer.” 

“And if I get it right?”

Paul thought for a second. “5 cents for every answer you get right.”

“I want a dollar.”

“10 cents each or you get nothing.”

“Deal.” 

Paul smiled. “Okay. Let’s play ball.”

“Wait!” Art’s doubts get the better of him. “The kicking thing. Um-”

“The shin. Just the shin.”

Art nodded and breathed deeply. “Okay. Uh...where’s that?”

Paul held the softball in his hand and tossed it up and down, laughing quietly at Art’s idiotic nature. “Well...let’s just hope you don’t have to find out this way.”

They began with a false throw. Art answered a question correctly, and Paul threw the ball at him because he just assumed his answer would be wrong. There were a few wrong answers, a few more softballs thrown, and a few upset grunts from Paul when the correct answer was given, and then they were done.

“Okay...that was the whole thing. All of the review questions. Looks like you didn’t need that. You’re gonna be fine,” Paul said, disappointed.

Art smiled victoriously. “See? I told you.”

“Not really, but if that’s what you’d like to believe. That doesn’t mean you’re not stupid.”

Paul went inside the house to get something, and Art sat on the ground by a tree. Often, when he wasn’t working on math homework or singing, Art could be found sitting by a tree. It was always one with the capabilities to be scaled. One he could climb, and sit in the branches of, surveying the neighborhood. As he got older, it became harder for him to keep his balance. He’d now rather sit by a tree than climb it and risk breaking a bone.

He looked up to see Paul walking out of the house, clutching a glass of water in his hands. Art raised his eyebrows and watched as Paul walked toward him.

“I hope you’re going to drink that,” he joked.

Paul stood above Art, a smile playing on his face. “No.” He poured the icy water onto Art’s head. 

Art’s body tensed and he shut his eyes as cold water fell from his hair, splattering onto the ground and dripping down his face. He shook his head like a wet dog to get the water off, and to hopefully get some of it onto Paul. Paul was laughing hysterically by now. 

“You- come here!” Art stood up and chased Paul around the yard, both of them laughing so hard they could hardly keep up a consistent speed. 

Eventually, Art caught up with Paul and tackled him to the ground. He pinned Paul’s arms to the dirt and hovered above him. The laughing stopped suddenly. Panic set in. Art couldn’t hear anything; all he heard was the heavy, terrified thumping sound of his heart in his ears. Paul’s vision seemed to go blurry as he struggled to assess the situation. Both were frozen in place, not knowing what to do, or how to deal with their current disposition. Feeling returned to Art’s hands and arms. He threw himself off of Paul and rolled over, landing on the ground next to him. His face was hot with embarrassment. 

“Sorry.” Art broke the ice-cold silence quickly.

“Don’t be,” Paul responded.

Another silence filled the air as they both tried to figure out their next move. Not much of their relationship consisted of silence, but when it did, it was rarely a good silence.

“I’m…” Art stood up, brushing wet grass from his arms. “I’m gonna go home.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, um, at school.”

“Okay. Bye.” Paul laid motionless. When he was sure Art was gone, he stood up, walked calmly as he could over to a bush, and threw up.

**-1955-**

Art stared at his hands. “Are my hands...getting bigger?” he asked Paul, as if it was a totally normal question.

Paul laughed. “No.” He looked Art up and down. “But your feet are.”

“What?!”

He laughed again. “No! Candy ass!”

They were in Art’s bedroom on a Saturday night. Paul was spending the night. His dad had a show, and his mom was in the audience of that show. He could’ve stayed home by himself, but he’d rather have an excuse to spend time at Art’s place.

“Why are you so on-edge?”

“Cause I’m gonna ask Judy to the prom on Monday! I just wanna make sure I don’t look like crap.”

Paul furrowed his eyebrows and sat down on Art’s bed. “Judy R. or Judy L?”

“Neither. Judy M.,” Art clarified.

This earned a groan from Paul. “What? Judy M. is- she’s so easy!”

“Yeah? Why do you think I’m asking her?” Art responded through a laugh. 

Paul nodded and sighed. “Can’t argue with that.”

Art went to his closet to pick out some pajamas to change into as the night was winding down.

“Wait. Didn’t you tell me last year that she wasn’t your type? I thought you said you wouldn’t date girls shorter than you.”

Art froze for a second, scared. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did.” Paul wasn’t taking any bullshit from him tonight. He was too tired to deal with it.

“Well.” Art shrugged. “Tastes change, Paul. Plus I’m not gonna _date_ her. She reminds me too much of you for that to work.” 

“Why are you asking her then? Also, she reminds you of me? What does that mean?”

Art was glad Paul couldn’t see his face. He laughed awkwardly to cover up his silence. “I just told you why I’m asking her! She’s easy. Now would you drop it? I’m nervous about it enough as it is” His voice shook.

“Okay, god!” Paul laughed at his friend’s uneasiness. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I don’t have any clean pajamas.”

Paul shrugged. “Why do you have to wear them? You’re almost 14 and you still sleep in pajamas? That’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Art was too tired to put up a fight by now. “I’m just gonna sleep in my clothes. On the floor. Goodnight.” Art lied down on the carpeted floor and closed his eyes.

Paul stared down at him from the edge of the bed, taking him in once again. It’d been years since he’d studied his best friend like this, soaking in everything about him. He smiled at the thought of telling Art how much he cared about him. But, Paul knew that Art would be off-put by that. So would everyone else. Boys being affectionate with other boys wasn’t exactly celebrated in 50s culture. So he refrained. He flopped back onto the pillows on Art’s bed.

“Goodnight, then,” He replied.

Art was having a similar crisis. His was more intense, though. All he felt when he looked his best friend in the eyes was pure love. He assumed it was friendly, platonic love. 

_Does that even exist? It has to. Why have so many men in my history books been so attached to their best friend that they don’t even marry a woman? Historians can’t be wrong about that kinda stuff._

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he kept thinking. But how could he stop? He tried thinking of other things. Nice things. Things that didn’t confuse him. Like girls. Like Judy M. with the pretty black hair, and the soft voice. But she confused him too. She was only so easy because she was so naive. She was easily manipulated, and Art didn’t want to be with someone simply because she was easy for him to wrap around his finger, even if only for one night. 

_I can’t ask Judy to prom._

Then what was he going to do? How else would he distract himself from the fact that he had feelings for his best friend? He didn’t know that’s what it was, but that is what it was.

_Whatever. I’ll deal with that later. Paul’s birthday is next week. I’ve gotta focus on that. Hm. What would Paul want for a birthday present?_

And soon, he was fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (gonna start including word and character counts here)
> 
> 2,222 words; 11,848 characters.


	3. Everything About It Is a Love Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth finally comes out.
> 
> (To understand this chapter in more depth I recommend listening to the song it is named after: https://youtu.be/NhLQT-TvahQ )

> _Locked in a struggle for the right combination of words in a melody line_
> 
> _I took a walk along the riverbank of my imagination_
> 
> _Golden clouds were shuffling the sunshine_

**It was a Saturday night. Exactly one week since Paul slept over at Art’s house. October 15, 1955. Two days since Paul’s fourteenth birthday. 11:26 PM. One-and-a-half hours since his birthday party ended. He was reminiscing about it, as he always was. He always thought about the past. It was a bad habit. He constantly got stuck in a nostalgia trap. Thinking about what he could’ve done differently, yearning to return to the past and change things.**

> _But if I ever get back to the twentieth century_
> 
> _Guess I'll have to pay off some debts_
> 
> _Open the book of my vanishing memory_
> 
> _With its catalog of regrets_

The sun was settled in the crook of the hills, gleaming through the kitchen window. Paul and Art were not yet sugar-high on cake and ice cream, but they didn’t doubt they would be soon. The alcohol cabinet was unlocked, and Paul’s parents were, once again, elsewhere. The boys had the freedom to do as they pleased. Despite this, all they did was sit on the floor, and talk to one another.

They talked for a long time. They talked about school, girls, baseball, and whatever topics they could think of. Both of them carefully danced around the one thing they didn’t want to talk about: themselves. Eachother. Their relationship. Their friendship. That is, until Art broke that silence to begin a much-needed discussion.

> _Stand up for the deeds I did_
> 
> _And those I didn't do_
> 
> _Sit down, shut up, think about God_
> 
> _And wait for the hour of my rescue_

“We need to talk about something,” he started. He fidgeted with his coat, rolling the sleeves up and down as he did when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. It wasn’t a nervous habit, or even something he ever thought about, it was just something he did. Paul thought about it, though. He liked those little things about Art. His little quirks. What made him tick. He was so fixated on this he almost forgot what had sparked it. But Paul didn’t want to talk. He was scared to talk.

“What about?” he played the fool to avoid further embarrassment. He could already feel heat forming in his cheeks.

“Do you remember when, a year ago, we were studying for a test, using your ‘alternate method’ or whatever?” He was waiting for Paul to nod before continuing, but Paul just stared at him with a blank face, his head tilted downwards. “Uh, okay then. Do you remember when you poured water on my head and then I chased you around the yard?” 

“And then you fell down on top of me? Yeah, yeah, of course, I remember. Why’d you leave?” Paul asked with an accusatory tone. He was shifting the spotlight to Art to avoid confronting his own feelings. He didn't like to think about that day. He wasn't sure Art liked to think about it either.

Art laughed weakly. “I was getting to that.” He wasn’t planning on talking about it, but he didn’t think Paul would ask.

They sat in the silence for a second. Art heard his heart pounding in his ears. The same feeling he had had on that day, about one year ago. “So...you were saying?” Paul, as he normally did, was getting rather impatient.

“Right,” Art sighed. He obviously didn't want to tell this story. “Well, I left because I got...scared? I know that’s a sorry excuse for an answer, but that’s the only way I really know how to describe it. I got scared of myself.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. Art was practically paralyzed with his fear of confrontation; Paul stared him down nonetheless. “It’s only a sorry excuse if you don’t explain it.”

“I’m not explaining it.”

“Well, why not?”

Art could feel his face burning as he shook his head. “No, I can’t.” 

“Artie, you can tell me, ok? You can tell me anything.”

Art nodded. “Well I…” he swallowed the lump in his throat.

The image of Paul’s face, so close to his own, had imprinted itself in his mind. Paul’s arms being suppressed under the weight of his own. The glimmer in Paul’s eyes in the split second he smiled before the fright kicked in.

“C’mon, Artie, please…” 

“I wanted to kiss you, ok?” he mumbled before hiding his red face in his coat sleeves.

Paul was slightly taken aback. He knew what homosexuality was, of course; but, at his age, in this time, he couldn't fathom someone so close to him being...was he? Upon hearing Art’s muffled sobs, he slid closer.

“Artie,” Paul sighed. He wanted to comfort his friend, but his mind racing like it was, he didn't find it possible. "Artie, it's okay."

Art uncovered his face; Paul wiped a tear from his cheek. His hand shook as he intertwined his fingers with Art’s, his knuckles cold against the tile floor. Whatever prejudice he'd learned from the way the world was, it faded at that moment. He cared about Art far too much to hold anything against him.

“I’m sorry, Paul…I really fucked up this time.”

> _We don't mean to mess things up_
> 
> _But mess them up we do_
> 
> _And then it's "Oh, I'm sorry"_

“You did nothing wrong." 

Art wrapped his arms around Paul, shoving his face into Paul’s sleeve. He had no intention of letting go. His eyes burned with tears.

“I’m a freak, aren’t I?” His speech was muffled. 

He wanted to think otherwise, but all he had were memories of being told that exact thing. He’d sing like an angel, he’d put flowers in his hair, he’d do anything that wasn’t considered “cool” for a boy. The other boys would call him queer. Most boys who did not perfectly fit into the stereotype, after being ridiculed for years on end, ended up equating queerness with an abnormality. It was only natural for Art to be feeling this way.

Paul ran his hand through Art’s hair, shaking his head. “You’re not a freak, Artie. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

They sat there, in each other’s presence, almost in each other’s minds. They hardly remembered what they were even doing there. They hardly remembered anything at all. All that mattered, in that moment of weakness, was that they had each other. Paul wished he could pause time and stay here forever.

> _Here’s a smiling photograph of love when it was new_
> 
> _At a birthday party_

Paul took one more look at Art, curled up in his arms, and smiled. He didn’t mind how deeply he was blushing.

“Don’t fall asleep, we still have something to do.” He whispered before carefully moving Art off of him and standing up. He shuffled through his kitchen drawers before pulling out a single blue candle. “Artie, the cake is on the dinner table, could you cut a slice for each of us?”

Art nodded and began to stand up. He lost his balance as the blood rushed to his head, but he caught himself on the counter.

Paul, who had been looking for the matches, turned around, startled. “Are you alright?” 

Art smiled and shook his head. “No. But it’s okay.”

“Maybe I should cut the cake,” Paul joked. 

“Looks like someone already did.”

Turning around to face the dining room, Paul saw what Art was talking about: a portion of the cake was gone.

“Goddammit, Eddie,” he whispered. “Well...that’s okay, that’s fine. Uh…” 

Paul grabbed the knife lying next to the cake and cut a single slice out. He placed it on a paper plate and stuck the small candle into it.

“Do you wanna light it?” he asked Art, handing over the matchbox.

“I’d be honored.”

> _Make a wish and close your eyes:_

The candle he’d gotten, unsurprisingly, was cheap. It was melting fast. He told Art he shouldn’t sing, as it would take too long, and the wax would get on the cake. Instead, he blew out the candle quickly as he could, and then took it out of the cake.

“What’d you wish for?”

Paul rolled his eyes. “I can’t tell you. It won’t come true otherwise.”

“Is it about me?” Art asked impatiently, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer, but hoping he could figure out through Paul’s body language.

“My lips are sealed, Garfunkel.”

Secretly, though, he wanted to tell Art what he wished for. But if he did, would he be able to fulfill the wish?

**Paul had wished that he could tell Art what was going on in** **_his_ ** **head. The thoughts he’d been having. The dreams, and fears. He wanted to tell him everything. But the words tangled in his brain like Christmas lights in a storage container. And all Paul could do now was remember the chances he had.**

> _Surprise, surprise, surprise._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these chapters are so short. I'm not very good at this.
> 
> 1,495 words; 8160 characters


	4. We're Not a Cat and Mouse, How About We Stop Acting Like We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Art get into a fight, which essentially steals their summer away from them.

“Paul, you’re not listening to me,” Art explained, as calmly as possible.

“No, Arthur, I’m not. Your ideas are stupid, and they don’t work with my vision!” Paul shot back, a little less calm.

They were fighting. Again. For what seemed to be the millionth time that week.

“Why does it always have to be your vision? Do you even care what I want? You’re selfish! You’ve always been selfish.”

“Bitching, bitching, bitching!” Paul crossed his arms. “Classic Artie. Just like your mother.”

They were fighting about music. It was always a tug-of-war between the two of them. Paul wanted the song written his way, Art wanted it his way. They hadn’t considered a combination of the two, as they probably should have done.

Mister Simon was getting quite fed up with his son and his son’s best friend. He believed he was too important a man to have to deal with two 16-year-olds screaming at each other in his living room. He swore he would blow a fuse if it continued any longer, but he didn’t have an excuse to stop it just yet. They were just arguing.

Art swung an arm at Paul, missing by a few inches when Paul moved out of the way. “Take that back, you chucklehead.”

“Get bent!”

Now Lou could intervene. Thankfully, he was able to step between them before further damage was done.

“Boys,” he began, attempting to deescalate the situation. He had both of their shoulders firmly in his grasp, keeping them a full Simon man’s wingspan apart. That distance being, arguably, not that far. “I will write the damn song, you two can’t get along for one second. Haven’t you known one another for five years now? Jesus, if this wasn’t doomed from the start, it’s sure falling apart now.

“Let me at him, Mister,” Art commanded, attempting to escape from Lou’s grip.

“Arthur, I am not going to let you hit my son.”

Paul laughed. “What are you gonna do now? Momma’s boy!” He assumed having his father as a barrier protected him from consequence.

“I’ll write the damn song,” Lou repeated, glancing between the boys with tired eyes. “Just stop fighting, for God’s sake. Go outside, or something.” He let go of them and returned to his desk wearily.

“So, do you wanna go out and play baseball?” Paul asked.

Lou’s “go play outside or something” suggestion was actually a rather good idea. The sky was illuminated brightly, and the boys had been trapped inside far too long. Working on music for six days straight while Art’s parents were out of town. It was the middle of summer, and neither boy’s skin had seen the sun once. Fresh air was almost required, at this point. It was like the blood hadn’t been getting to their brains properly. 

Art was convinced that Paul’s head, figuratively, was too big for his brain. Sure, he was a smart kid, but he wasn’t as smart as he seemed to think he was. Art never felt comfortable enough to share ideas with him for that very reason. He’d listen, but if he used the idea at all, it would change dramatically from the way Art pitched it. Alternatively, Paul would shake his head and use a commonplace phrase instead of explaining why he didn’t want to include Art in their seemingly joint project. It’s always “that doesn’t work,” or, “I don’t think we can do that here,” and not, “that’s not possible because…”. Paul had an attitude of “you have to trust me because I am the one calling the shots,” and this way of thinking was beginning to get on Art’s nerves.

Art, who was standing against a tree, frowned and shook his head. “No, no. Uh,” he laughed. “I think we just need to talk.”

Paul swallowed a few times. His mind, recently, had been traveling to places he didn’t like it to go. Taboo places, where he thought about taboo things. He didn’t mean to think about those things, of course. He was just a very imaginative child. He assumed no one else thought about the things he thought about. But his imagination was beginning to affect the way he lived his day-to-day life. Perhaps it was the new surge of hormones, but Paul was beginning to act erratically. He was becoming paranoid. Perhaps that’s what sparked today’s fight. 

“Talk abou-” his voice wavered; he cleared his throat. “Talk about what?”

Art threw his hands up in exasperation. “What do you think? You’re...you’re so controlling, nowadays. I’m not saying you haven’t always been that way, but recently it’s been...more apparent. Why is that, Paul? Do you suddenly hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then what is it?” Art crossed his arms. “Because I happen to remember a certain eleven-year-old boy who would’ve been absolutely elated to share ideas with me.”

“Alright, you wanna know what it is?” Paul’s voice raised in volume upon Art bringing up the past. 

“Yes. I would. Tell me, Paul Simon, how does your brain work. Or does it work at all?” 

Paul closed his eyes, sighing, and almost laughed at what he was about to say. It came out as an unintelligible mumble. 

“What?”

“I’m compensating for my height!” he said louder. “I’m short, so I try to be better than you. It’s stupid, but it’s true. Is that what you wanted? Jeez, Artie.”

And it was true. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Paul knew that, but did Art? It seemed that he had his own things to work through.

In Art’s mind, Paul was a puzzle. Every time he thought he’d gotten it together, one of the pieces had fallen under the goddamn couch. The pieces were always lopsided, warped, or didn’t fit together right. 

_I’m so simple,_ he thought, _why can’t my favorite person be?_

Despite his seemingly easy outlook on himself, he was starting to wonder if he was really as simple as he believed he was.

As the boys were adjusting to high school, things became more difficult. Life became more difficult. They assumed it’d be the same as, or at least similar to, the way it was in middle school. They knew it would change in some areas, but they expected it to stay the same. Paul craved that sameness. Art could do without it, but he did find it comforting. High school was turning out to be more competitive. Academically AND socially. It was hard to make friends in this climate. Still, they had each other. That’s all that should matter, right?

“You said you wanted to play baseball?” Art offered, after a disturbing length of silence.

Paul shook his head. He did say that, he wasn’t denying that he had. But he was no longer in the mood for games. Would they make him feel better? They probably would. Paul wanted to feel how he was feeling now, though. He wanted to be reflective. He felt that he needed to live in his own head for a little while. “I just want to think right now. I want to be alone.” He didn’t mean that. “Wait, but don’t leave though,” he added quickly. 

“Well, which is it?” Once again, Paul was being complicated. Art was only asking him to simplify. To say what he really meant instead of what he thought would sound the best. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” Paul replied honestly. “Break down the question.”

Break down the question? What in God’s name is that supposed to mean? Art thought. I guess I’ll try?

“Would it make you happy if I stayed?” 

Paul nodded, turning his head away to hide that he was almost blushing.

Art sighed. “Okay, well, do you want to be happy right now?”

“Artie.”

“Right, sorry.” Art searched for a way to phrase his question. “Is it a good thing for you to be happy right now?”

Paul sighed, dwelling on the question. “It’s always a good thing to be happy. I can be sad later, when the sun is down,” he concluded. “Come sit with me, Artie.”

Art walked over to the porch swing and sat down next to Paul, taking note of how many cushions there were.

“What do you want to talk about?” Paul asked.

“Uh. School stuff, I guess. School...school is hard now, isn’t it?”

“School’s always been kinda hard though,” Paul reasoned.

Art shook his head, disagreeing with Paul’s point of view. “Yeah but, this year it seemed extra hard, right? I even struggled in math.”

“Me too.”

“You always struggle in math,” Art remarked. Paul punched his arm.

“You know what I mean, loser.”

Silence, again. A lot of their relationship was quiet nowadays. It had stopped being uncomfortable; it was just a part of life. Empty space created a balance.

“Do you ever get sad when we’re not together?” Art blurted, breaking the balance. 

Paul looked at him, confused. “Of course I do, Artie. You’re my only friend.”

“No, no, uh...really sad. To the point where you don’t want to do anything, you just want to lie in bed for the whole day. ‘Cause sometimes there’s almost a sinking feeling in my stomach and it gets so bad I just feel empty and cold.” Art fell back against the swing upon seeing Paul’s expression. It was a face of deep, genuine concern. “Nevermind, nevermind, just forget I said anything.”

“Artie, it’s okay.” While Paul did find this confession strange, he knew it was how Art really felt. Otherwise, he wouldn’t’ve taken it back. If he’d kept his notebook from 4th grade, he would be able to fill it 6 times and then some. The truth was, Art was tons more complicated than he believed he was. He was just complicated in a different way than Paul was. 

“We’re both kinda messed up, aren’t we?” Art laughed.

Paul shook his head. “No, just you.” As nonchalantly as possible, he kissed Art on the cheek, before resting his head on Art’s shoulder.

Art’s face flushed and he fought back the widest grin of his life.

As the sky darkened, he spotted the first star in the oceanic painting of dusk that settled above him. He wished on that star. He wished that one day, he and Paul wouldn’t have to wish for what they wanted. He wished one day, they could have it. Art didn’t need to be famous, and if he was being honest, he didn’t really think he wanted to be. He just needed Paul by his side, holding his hand. Or resting his heavy head on Art’s shoulder. _Whatever works._

“Arthur, I talked to your mother about what happened the other day,” Lou informed the nervous boy next to him. Art’s parents had come back to town the night before, and Lou had gotten a word in with Rose about the fight. “She thinks, and I think, that it’s best if you boys spend some time apart.”

“No,” Art whined quietly. “No, Mister Simon, please.”

Though he wouldn’t admit it, Art’s distress put a minuscule crack in Lou’s heart. He almost felt bad that he was separating his son from his best friend. Then again, after the fight they had, he might as well go for the “absence makes the heart grow fonder” technique. If that didn’t work, maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

“She’ll be sending you off to a summer camp, where you’ll stay for, um, the rest of the summer. Paul will be staying at another one, on the other side of town from yours. I’m sorry we have to do this to you, kid.”

Art was suddenly hit with that empty feeling again, as if a lightning bolt struck him right in between the ribs, absorbing any positive energy he had left in him. All that remained was pure, unfiltered resentment. 

“This isn’t fair! This isn’t fair!” He shouted repetitively, jumping up off of the couch and beginning to pace across the living room floor. He wanted to scream, to kick something. He couldn’t live without Paul for this long, it wasn’t possible.

“You’ll be able to write to each other,” Mister Simon explained, rather calmly. “Sit down, son, sit down.”

“You’re not my father, you can’t tell me what to do, Louis.” Art’s response, though childish, was effective in shutting Lou up.

He sighed. “You’re right, I’m not your father, I can’t tell you what to do. What I can tell you, though, is that your mother and I talked this over, and she thinks this is the right thing to do.”

Art stood in front of Lou, motionless, his arms crossed. He fought back tears until he couldn’t any longer. “I’ll go say goodbye, then,” he managed.

Now, standing in front of Paul’s bedroom door, Art faltered. Did he want to be the one to break the news to Paul? Did Paul already know? Lou had dragged Art out of the room early that morning to talk to him about the summer camp situation, Paul hadn’t been awake, so how would he have gotten the information? But then again, what if he had? It was a dumb back-and-forth train of thought that Art just wanted to get off of, so he opened the door.

Inside the small room, there was a bunk bed. Even though Paul was older than his brother, Eddie, he slept on the bottom bunk. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but he liked being close to the ground. Eddie was afraid of spiders, hence the distance from the ground. Thinking about it, it didn’t make much sense, as spiders could climb walls. But forethought was not Eddie’s strong suit. 

Lying in the bottom bunk of said bunk bed was Paul. He was curled into a ball, like a petrified isopod, and he was crying quietly.

“Paul?” Art asked dumbly. Of course, he’d overlooked the fact that Art fell asleep at 8pm the night before. Paul was most definitely up for hours afterward. His father being his father, Paul had probably already heard the news.

“Artie!” Came the excited response. 

Before he realized what was happening, Art’s eyes were met with the tear-stained face of Paul Simon, who’d wrapped his arms around the taller one’s waist. Art met the gesture with a light pat on the back.

“I’m going to miss you a lot. I don’t even know what I’m gonna do without you.”

“Yeah, me neither. I’ll write you lots of letters though, okay? Lots of letters.” Art committed to the embrace, and he hugged Paul back tightly.

They separated from each other when they heard Lou’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Art shoved his hands in his pockets to look inconspicuous.

He cleared his throat. “I guess we’ll see each other later, then?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Uh, later. Bye, Artie.”

On the way to the campsite, Paul’s emotions had been on the fritz. Every once in awhile, he’d grin, staring out the window, daydreaming about what he and Art would get up to once they got out of camp. Once those daydreams turned strange and uncomfortable, Paul would get frustrated as he tried and failed to think of anything else. Then he’d be back to crying because he missed his best friend. His sobs were muffled in his arm, but Belle and Lou knew what was going on. Belle, feeling more empathetic towards her son, almost turned around and comforted him, but Lou gave her a look that said “that’ll only make it worse.”

Art, on the other hand, had gotten all his crying, screaming, and whatnot out of his system days before he was supposed to leave. Now, he was only looking out the window, glum as ever. The sunny sky seemed to be mocking him. He felt that the world should be as dull and grey as he felt. But that was the greatest irony, in his eyes. The things that should be are not when they are needed most. Just like how Paul and Art needed to be with each other now.

Paul was doodling on his stationary. His pencil marks looked like tumbleweeds. He felt tangled and hollow. He blew in the wind like a tumbleweed. Paul believed it was quite symbolic, and he liked drawing the way he felt. It helped him understand, and cope with, his emotions. He drew a rather large heart in the center of the paper, smiling mindlessly as he wrote “Paul & Artie” in the middle of the heart. 

Art, across the city, was also drawing aimlessly. Scribbling a small cartoon of himself and Paul. The image of them sitting on the porch swing together was etched into his memory. That was what he drew. He smiled weakly, rubbing his cheek as he remembered. The ghost of Paul’s kiss was haunting the left side of his face. His hands shook slightly as he began to cry for the first time that car ride. “Artie & Paul,” he wrote, breathing unevenly. As he drew a heart around the words, his left hand smudged the drawing he’d done. But nothing could smudge his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2,856 words; 15,575 characters.


End file.
